


are we both getting older? did your memories fade?

by ghosstkid



Series: a lost love takes a long time to die [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29576907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosstkid/pseuds/ghosstkid
Summary: Birds sing in the trees that line the little, glassy lake. The summer sky overhead is clear and blue, not a single cloud dares to cross its brilliant surface. The air is warm and full of life.A single rowboat glides across the glassy surface, distorting the perfect reflection of the trees leaning over the lake and the glowing sky above the green leaves. Lovely fingers dance across the surface, lingering in the tiny waves created by the boat. Free from soft white lace gloves, the bare fingers waltz across the clear water, droplets dripping down pale fingernails.Sunlight sparkles off the lake.The rowboat is made for three.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Ann Coulman Ross/James Clark Ross
Series: a lost love takes a long time to die [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198901
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	are we both getting older? did your memories fade?

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song "A Lost Love Takes a Long Time to Die" by Good Dog.

Birds sing in the trees that line the little, glassy lake. The summer sky overhead is clear and blue, not a single cloud dares to cross its brilliant surface. The air is warm and full of life. 

A single rowboat glides across the glassy surface, distorting the perfect reflection of the trees leaning over the lake and the glowing sky above the green leaves. Lovely fingers dance across the surface, lingering in the tiny waves created by the boat. Free from soft white lace gloves, the bare fingers waltz across the clear water, droplets dripping down pale fingernails. 

Sunlight sparkles off the lake. 

The rowboat is made for three. 

Only two sit in it. 

The lady has draped herself over the side; skirts, a blanket and pillows spilling onto the floor of the boat, around the picnic basket and over the shoes of the man holding the oars, his hands still on the sun-warmed wood. 

He watches her, a sparkle in his eye. She had removed her hat, having tossed it with a laugh to the floor of the little boat and now her hair threatens to escape its pins. The warm summer sunlight washes over her; her white summer dress glows. 

It reminds him of the way snow sparkles in white, heatless sunlight. 

A slight tremor causes the oars in hands to shudder against the water, sparkling droplets fluttering through the air. 

“James?” she asks as she turns to look back at him over her shoulder. He smiles sweetly. 

The third bench behind him is empty. 

He grips the oars and gives them a strong pull, the boat gliding over the lake. 

“We have nowhere to go, my love,” the lady smiles. A tassel on the corner of the blanket she lies on hangs over the edge of the boat, dragging through the water with her soft fingers. The golden thread glitters in the blue water like golden epaulettes on broad shoulders. “No need to go anywhere. We could float here all day if we want to. It is so nice today, isn’t it?” She sighs as she leans back, her fingers fluttering over the surface of the lake. 

He looks up at the sky. A warm breeze drifts around him. It reminds him of the ripple of white sails, of wind burying its way into his thick collar and the rush of air from laughing lungs. 

He thinks of that laugh, of his friend's laugh. He remembers the last day he spoke to him, gripping his hand tightly, promising a swift return from the cold, deathly place they both knew and dreaded. How his friend had spoken, how he had laughed. 

It was a sound he would never hear again. Not in this life. 

He remembered following his friend to that cold place, remembered searching every crack and cranny in the coast for the two familiar ships he had loved with all his heart, searching the horizon, begging every time he awoke that today he would find them.

That day never came. 

“What did Francis say?” he had begged.

All he was given was a handful of gold buttons. 

How he wanted to hurl them into the sea; throw them to the depths just as both of them had been tossed into the tumultuous surf by a careless, selfish world. 

Yet he kept them, each and every one of those small, golden buttons. 

One of them rested now in his white waistcoat’s pocket, a poor substitute for the man who should be here with them, enjoying the warm sunlight, the twinkling of bird song and the gentle waters of the lake. 

These joyous things. 

He thinks of a cold, fearsome night, the horror as the two ships collided among the swirling waves and ice. In that moment he had thought of these joyous things, thought of dancing, laughter and solid, lush green earth under his boots. 

He wonders if his friend had thought about those things too in the end. 

Had he thought about them, the pair now floating alone on the glassy lake, listening to a silence only broken by birdsong?

His fingers slip from the wooden oar and slide into his pocket, curling around the golden button safely tucked away there. His coat lays abandoned on the floor of the boat, no doubt it will be wrinkled when he picks it up later. He runs his finger over the engraving on the button. He glances up at the lady across from him who smiles gently. 

She has found these buttons throughout their house; one glinting on the desk in his study, another resting on the bedside table, another on the windowsill that looks out onto the garden as if it were left there to admire the roses, how pink and lovely they are in the golden glow of the summer evening. Looking at the golden button on the window sill, she had slowly sunk into the chair next to it, resting her sad face in her hand till he found her, the sun disappearing beyond the horizon. 

The sweet sound of birdsong calls him back to the little boat as it coasts over the glassy lake, the soft hands of the women he loves lingering in the cool, crystal water. He smiles as he meets her warm, gentle gaze; it’s as warm as a lover’s embrace or a heavy navy blue wool coat blanketing his shoulders. Slowly, he loosens his grip on the button in his pocket, freeing his hand from his pocket. Once more, he grips the oar of the little boat. 

“Yes…” James says quietly. “It is a beautiful day.”


End file.
